


Broken Track

by esama



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:11:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Bilbo is hired to steal the Arkenstone. Again and for the first time.





	1. Chapter 1

Bilbo leafs through the old newspaper for the fourth time, trying not to fidget quite so much. The train shudders around him in rhythmic clatter, thrum-thrum, thrum-thrum over the tracks and it drowns out the chatter of those few passengers who are travelling in company and thus have someone talk to – or who had decided to start talking with their fellow travellers. No one talks to him, though – the most they do is give him odd looks.

Hobbit must be an unusual sight in these parts, Bilbo muses – not that he's particularly surprised. A Hobbit is an unusual sight in any parts.

The other passengers are mostly Men, with few goblins and Orcs sitting here and there, their heads bent low or hidden behind similar newspapers as the one Bilbo is trying to read. There is one elf there though – he is getting about as many unusual looks as Bilbo is, though it's less to do with rarity of such sights and more due to the fact that the elf is there, at all – travelling _second class_ rather than first. One would think elves would travel in private compartment, or if not then they would stay in the dining carriage, surely?

Bilbo's fingers tap at the edge of the newspaper and he turns it, not having read a word from the previous page. He's nervous and he thinks it must show, which only makes him more nervous. It's been… never since he's travelled in a Big Folk train such as this one, and everything about it makes him a little uneasy. The Eastern Express is just so large. His feet do not even ghost over the floor, so high are the seats, and so big that he can't hope to make use of their arm rests. One would think such a big seat would be more comfortable – more space to relax on. But it isn't and he cannot relax.

One of the Orcs clears his throat and then winces when the elf not far from him looks away from the window to cast a glance his way. The Orc bows his head and brings up a book, his bald head buried behind it and after a moment the elf turns away. The tension of the air doesn't ease though.

Twitching uneasily, Bilbo checks his pocket watch. The journey is almost over – ten more minutes and they should reach the city.

He attempts to read – the last minutes are always the longest, and if he can lose them in reading news then all the better… but he cannot read past a single sentence that makes no sense and after re-reading it four times Bilbo gives up and folds the paper. One of the Goblins glances at him and then away and Bilbo resolutely looks out of the window.

They are well out of the forest now, on the grasslands, and little further away there is a lake, shining in the evening sun. There, on the waves, he can see the ghost of a town – the ruins of the famed Esgaroth. Perhaps, if there was time, he would go and have a look, perhaps even take a barge ride. That was what one did in east, after all. Tour the mountain, see the libraries and museums of Dale, and take a barge ride around Esgaroth.

Perhaps he could even glimpse Smaug's Bones, before all this was said and done. Now, that would be something, wouldn't it, to see the remains of the Last Dragon on Middle Earth.

There is a chime in the air and the brass plated speakers over head crackle. " _Ladies and gentlemen, we are arriving in our final destination now. Please mind your luggage and disembark in orderly fashion. The Eastern Express Corp. wishes you a very good rest of the day and that you enjoy your stay in the city of Dale_."

The female announcer signs off in another crackle of the speakers and Bilbo sits up a little straighter on his seat. Across the carriage, people are starting to take down their luggage from the overhead racks – his is under his seat, as he hadn't been able to reach that high – so after checking that it had not gotten stuck or anything of the sort, he simply sits down and waits. The elf, he notices, carries no luggage, while the Orcs and goblins all travel with heavy rucksacks. Workers, probably, Bilbo thinks. Miners perhaps.

He looks outside, and watches the ground slowly rise, from softly waving hills into rocky inclines to what turns out to be, of course, the mountainside. The Lonely Mountain rises, as its name states, alone from the surrounding area, higher and higher the closer they get to Dale until finally the mountain dominates the view. Below it there are houses and buildings, streets leading around and into the mountain, with smoke rising from chimneys and carriages rattling along while people mill about.

Bilbo takes a breath and releases it slowly as the view is finally blocked by the station and the train slows, slows and finally… stops. Immediately after the clanging of doors being opened begins as the conductors start releasing the passengers from the train.

Final destination, he thinks, and after the other passengers have disembarked he grabs his suitcase, and follows the last stragglers out and finally into Dale.

There are a lot of people there, on the station walkways, hurrying away form the train or to another. Bilbo watches them for a moment, hesitating as he isn't quite sure which way is the exit – before following the elf from his carriage into the throng of people. It's mostly Humans, of course, but the number of Goblins and Orcs is a little intimidating as well. Bilbo tries not to stare or to look as nervous as he feels and in the end pays more attention to his feet than to where he is actually going – and so, he almost misses the sign with his name on it.

"Mister Baggins!" a female voice shouts. "Mister Baggins!"

There, a young lady is holding a large piece of paper with name, Bilbo Baggins, drawn on it with bold letters. "Here," Bilbo calls, relieved to have a place to go to and hopefully further guidance. "I'm here – oh blast it," he grumbles as he almost gets knocked over by a Human woman in terrible hurry, as he tries to get to the sign bearer.

The sign bearer spots him and comes to his side briskly, tucking the sign under her arm. "Mister Baggins?" she asks and holds out a hand. "Sigrid of the House of Girion."

"Oh – are you indeed?" Bilbo asks in astonishment, but quickly takes the hand. "Apologies – Bilbo Baggins at your service – but you knew that," he adds nervously.

The young woman arches an eyebrow at him and then smiles. "Come, let's get off this throng of people – there is a carriage waiting for us. Can I take your luggage?"

"I can manage it, thank you kindly," Bilbo says and she accepts it with a brisk nod and turns to lead him off. He's rather glad of it – she splits the crowd ahead of him and he can walk without fearing of having people running into him for not having spotted him.

With Sigrid of the House of Girion leading the way, they make it through the busy railway station, past its cafeterias and newspaper stands and outside where a line of carriages wait for passengers. One of them, a particularly splendid coach with silver accents and deep green curtains, is the one Sigrid leads him to, opening to door for him and waiting for him to clamber into the big carriage before following inside. Without prompting, the coachman coaxes the carriage into motion and away from the railway station.

Bilbo sets his suitcase beside him and looks on Sigrid nervously. "I assume you work for the company?" he asks somewhat nervously.

"I am part of the company, yes," Sigrid says, crossing her ankles and settling her hands in her lap. She is looking at him interestedly, taking in his features and the silence stretches for a moment, growing awkward, before she catches her own staring. "I'm sorry – the resemblance is really remarkable," she says, shaking her head in wonder. "But you must be told that all the time, of course."

"Resemblance?" Bilbo asks, confused.

"To the Dragon Riddler," she says. "Really remarkable."

Bilbo blinks at that and then feels his face scrunching up into a frown. "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I do not know what you mean."

Sigrid blinks at that and then straightens her back. "But surely you know why you're here?"

"I'm here for a job interview," Bilbo says, twiddling with his fingers and then setting them in his lap, resolute to not twitch. Invitation which had came with tickets on the Eastern Express and all expenses paid – and promise of generous reward for his troubles, he thinks gloomily, something he dearly needs. Even if the interview goes toes up, it would… tide him over for a while.

"Ah, I see… yes, of course," Sigrid says, and frowns a little, looking like she wants to say something. Then she shakes her head and leans back a little. "Best leave it to your… potential employer to explain, then," she says and turns to the carriage windows, obviously in search of distraction. "How do you like our city so far?"

"So far I have yet to see but a sliver of it, so I'm sure I couldn't say," Bilbo says, a little more nervous now. The invitation had been an odd one, money aside, but this… this makes him uneasy. "I'm sure it's lovely – I am hoping for a chance to tour the museums here."

"See the famous Dragon Bones?" Sigrid asks knowingly.

"Well, yes," Bilbo agrees. Of course, dragon skeletons aren't so rare these days, they'd been excavated from all corners of Middle Earth – but Smaug had _lived_ less than thousand years ago. There are recordings, factual, real recordings, of his last deeds. They say there are still scorch marks on Esgaroth from the Dragon's passing. The Last Dragon's Bones. That's something special.

Sigrid smiles and looks outside. "I recommend going in early, if you can manage it," she says. "The place is always packed to the brim by noon."

"I'll keep that in mind," Bilbo says.

They speak little for the rest of the ride, as the carriage clatters through the streets of Dale and to their destination, wherever that is. Bilbo is starting to get rather tired of sitting on rattling surfaces by the time the carriage pulls to a halt. His rump is starting to get rather numb, and when Sigrid holds the door open for him, he hops out gratefully, stretching his back.

They're in front of a grand old mansion, build in style that Bilbo thinks smacks of _dwarven_. Blocky façade with pillars like blocks – it's very impressive if not elegant, he muses and then looks around. It's not, from what he can see on this rather more impressive neighbourhood, an unusual style of architecture.

"Come this way, please," Sigrid says with a nod and leads him to the mansion's impressive front doors, which she unlocks with her own key. Inside, the mansion is lit with gas lamps, every corner illuminated in their steady glow, and Bilbo looks around in wonder. The front hall is lined with stone statues – dwarves, all of them. Even here, such things wouldn't be considered common decoration, surely not?

A bit macabre, to decorate your house with images of an extinct race of people.

"What is this place?" Bilbo asks quietly.

"It used to be the House of Durin in Dale," Sigrid says, looking at where he is looking, at the statues. "This was where Dwarven royalty and diplomats stayed when in Dale, back in the day. It was hardly ever in use even when there were people to use it. Now it's owned by the Crown."

Bilbo casts her a look, wondering about her lineage. The House of Girion is a royal bloodline, he knows that much, but she doesn't carry herself like a princess. Not that he knows much of princesses, but he rather doubts one of such importance would be traipsing around alone, with nary a guard with her.

Spotting his look, she arches a brow. "I am relatively distant relation," she says. "Great great great granddaughter of a son of a king. I'm so far from the line of succession that I might just as well not be on it at all."

"Ah," Bilbo says, somewhat awkward.

Sigrid smiles and motions ahead. "Please, this way."

She leads Bilbo further into the mansion, which shows it's dwarvish tint more the deeper they go. The walls are carven in angular designs, and so are the pillars, and the stairs are lined with blocky balusters that too look to have been made by dwarven hand.

Bilbo is led, ultimately, into a large sitting room with couches and armchairs. There is a blazing fire there, a rug throw on the floor before the large fireplace, and the air is warm and welcoming. There are also people there – two men and a woman, sitting across from each other with a table between them, drinks sitting on the table. They're all elves.

"Mister Bilbo Baggins," Sigrid says, showing him in.

Bilbo almost stumbles into a bow – he knows one of them, just as does anyone who has ever glanced at a newspaper. "My lords, lady," he says, almost choking in horror. "It's an honour to –"

"Lift your head," one of the elves says, sounding tired and impatient, and Bilbo straightens his back so fast it cracks. He smothers a wince while the elves eye him, looking him up and down.

"Incredible," the lone female elf murmurs. She's a regal figure – as all elves tend to be – with long ginger hair and green suit of clothes in elven style. "It's _uncanny_."

"Indeed," the elf who'd spoken first muses, running a hand over his chin as he looks Bilbo up and down. King Thranduil of Mirkwood is, somehow, even more impressive than he was in photographs, his features cool, his expression unreadable, his head crowned in golden branches. Good grief, a living breathing Elven King, and Bilbo is all travel rumbled and possibly stinks of smoke too!

King Thranduil hums at Bilbo's furry feet and looks to his face. "Tell me, Master Hobbit, how did you come by the name of _Bilbo_ Baggins?"

"I – it was given to me by my parents?" Bilbo says, confused – and oddly charmed to be called _Master_ anything. How old fashioned, that is. "I understand it is an unusual name outside Shire, but within it's not so odd – it's a family name."

"I see," King Thranduil says slowly, considering him.

"Come," the female elf says and motions with elegant hand. "Join us, Master Baggins. You must be worn from your travel. Would you like a drink?"

Bilbo hesitates over his suitcase and then carries it over, setting it beside a free armchair before taking a seat slowly. "Thank you," he says, as the elf woman pours a glass of what looks like whiskey to him and then hands it over. It's not whiskey, it's some sort of brandy, but it's very fine. "Thank you very much," Bilbo says, after taking only a small sip.

"I suppose introductions are in order," Thranduil says and casts a look at the other elves, while Sigrid takes a seat on the couch beside the female elf. "Not that I need introducing," he muses somewhat boredly. "These are Tauriel of Greenwood and this is…" he makes a face at the third elf and waves a hand, dismissive and disdainful. " _The Kinslayer_."

The other male elf arches an eyebrow at him over his glass and it speaks volumes and smiles a little – but he doesn't correct the terrible name given to him. He doesn't say anything at all, and unlike Thranduil and Tauriel – and in lesser part Sigrid – he doesn't look at Bilbo like he knows him. In fact, he doesn't seem to even care.

"It is an honour," Bilbo says slowly. "I admit, I am a little confused about what a hobbit of the Shire might have to offer to a company such as this."

Thranduil turns his cold eyes to him and away from the Kinslayer. For a long moment he says little, just eyes Bilbo up and down, taking in his suit jacket, his trousers, his feet, his hair and ears. "Tell me about yourself, Master Baggins," he orders then and lifts his glass – which has within it red wine. "Tell me what it is you do."

Bilbo coughs, a little uneasy. "Well, I… I am a writer," he says slowly. "I do a little writing for a newspaper and some periodicals, and I have written two biographies," neither of which had sold particularly well. "I've dabbled a little in fiction writing too, but published very little."

The elves stare at him, unreadable. "A writer," Thranduil repeats.

Bilbo coughs. He'd assumed this interview would be about becoming correspondent to some paper or periodical in these eastern parts – the way Thranduil speaks the word makes it sound like he's never heard the like. It's definitely not what the king had expected. "I also manage a couple estates," Bilbo admits, somewhat uneasily. "I wouldn't call myself a landlord precisely, but…" he trails off as Tauriel turns to Thranduil, her eyebrows arched.

The silence stretches, odd and tense. Finally, the Kinslayer chuckles against his brandy glass. "What a mighty burglar you found for us, Thranduil." He says.

"Oh, do be quiet," Thranduil mutters and crosses one leg over the other. "Tauriel, get the drawings."

"Burglar?" Bilbo mutters confusedly as the elven woman stands and goes to fetch something from a nearby bookcase – a book and a scroll of what looks like actual parchment. She lays them on the table between them, and then spreads out what looks like recently perused pages.

There, printed with loving care on the yellowed page, is Bilbo's own face.

It really is his face, he thinks in shock and confusion, as he leans in to look. Every line of his face, every curl of his hair – it's little overgrown in the picture, falling too much over his ears, but… it's him, beautifully drawn and wearing the oddest set of clothes.

"What is this?" Bilbo asks in confusion, as Tauriel spread out other drawings and a _painting_. Him again, captured sitting on a rock and smoking a long-stemmed pipe, him with a sword of all things, fighting what looks like a gigantic spider – him, in company of what are obviously _dwarves_. "I – I don't understand."

"That, Master Baggins, is Bilbo Baggins, the Dragon Riddler," Thranduil says, leaning an elbow on the backrest of the couch he is sitting on and his cheek on his knuckles, looking intent and bored all at once. "Fourteenth member of a Company otherwise formed of dwarves that retook the Lonely Mountain and the Kingdom of Erebor from Dragon Smaug, over thousand years ago. Surely you know the stories."

Bilbo opens his mouth, closes it, frowns, and then opens it again. "I'm sorry, I do not know the stories," he says. "May I?" he asks and at Tauriel's nod he takes one of the drawings, the one of the full company of dwarves. He counts heads – indeed, there are fourteen in total, a hobbit and thirteen dwarves. They are all very lifelike; it's almost as good as a photograph. "The likeness is… stunning, but I'm not sure what this has to do with my employment?" he asks confusedly.

The elves share a look and then eye him. "You don't know the stories?" Tauriel asks, confused. "You don't know of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield."

Bilbo shakes his head. "I know of Thorin the Third?" he says slowly, hesitantly.

"Named after Thorin _the Second_ , that Thorin right there," Sigrid says helpfully, motioning at the drawings. "The one with a scowl."

Bilbo looks, taking in the braids and the furs and shaking his head as his eyes slide to the more familiar figure. "I still do not…" he says with a little laugh and runs a hand through his hair, setting the drawing down and looking at the elves and Sigrid nervously – they are all watching him keenly. "I don't understand at all," he says again. "You can't be hiring me because I happen to look like a hobbit from a thousand years ago!"

"Can we not?" the Kinslayer murmurs and Thranduil scoffs at him.

Tauriel is watching Bilbo thoughtfully before speaking. "Over a thousand years ago, Thorin the Second, also known as Thorin Oakenshield, took a quest to reclaim his homeland of Erebor," she says. "I was there at the end of it, as was my Lord Thranduil – we met the Company, came to know a number of its members. Including Bilbo the Dragon Riddler, the Master Burglar of the company."

Bilbo gapes at her – good grief, of course all knew that elves live prodigiously long lives, but over a thousand years. "Yes, well," he sputters. "I still don't see what that has got to do with me, in particular."

"You bear more than passing similarity with the Dragon Riddler," Tauriel says. "You are a spitting image of him."

"I still don't see –" Bilbo starts to say, but is interrupted.

"Something was lost during those times," Thranduil says, sounding utterly bored. "A gem of… great value we now suspect to be much higher than thought even then – and back then, _wars_ were waged over the thing. The Arkenstone of Erebor. The King's Jewel," he mutters with great disdain. "Tch."

The Kinslayer gives him a look and sets down his glass. "The Dragon Riddler was one of the last people to see the Arkenstone, before it was… mysteriously… lost," he says and looks at Bilbo intently. "Aside from some dwarves, none of whom now live, and neither do their descendants…"

Bilbo shakes his head, confused and then horrified. "I certainly don't know where it is either, I have never even heard of such a stone!" he says. "Even if this Dragon Riddler might be some distant relation from a thousand years ago – I have never heard of him or this quest, I know nothing of it!"

The elves share another look and Bilbo clutches his hands together. Oh, this must be a terrible mistake, all of this, he thinks nervously. "I'm certain I can't help you there, I'm terribly sorry, but I really do not know," he says, looking between them, praying they believe him.

"Peace, Master Baggins, we don't expect you to know where the stone is now," Thranduil finally says and leans back with a sigh. "We expect you to know where was and will be."

"I – what?" Bilbo asks hopelessly. "How would I know that?"

The Kinslayer sighs in obvious irritation and Tauriel shakes her head, turning to Bilbo. "We do have a job for you… but it is one difficult to explain and perhaps even harder to believe."

Bilbo has the strangest urge to say _I'll believe that when I hear it,_ but manages to smother it and shakes his head instead. "Perhaps you could begin by simply _saying_ what it is that you want from me?" he asks, rather helpless.

Tauriel glances at the other elves. "That is the difficult part. See, I do not believe you look like the Dragon Riddler, Master Baggins," she says and watches him very closely. "I think you _are_ the Dragon Riddler."


	2. Chapter 2

The sheer wealth of history present in Dale is incredible. Bilbo has seen some ancient sites, of course – he's visited both the ruins of Amun Sul and Rivendell and the remains of Fornost in his time, which for a hobbit is already a lot. Those had been ruins for the most part though – Dale is an ancient city still _living,_  full of people hurrying to and fro and going about their business amidst the ancient monuments of past days and deeds – and battles.

The museums, when he tours them, are as advertised. Built once upon time by the Dwarves of Erebor, the architecture alone is impressive, but the collection of artefacts is even greater. There is just so much there. Entire halls full of weapons and armour and war machines, libraries of ancient designs and maps and paintings – and the gallery of sculptures alone would take a day to fully see. There are not only dwarvish memories there, though the displays with replicas of dwarven crowns and jewellery and of course the _Seven Rings_ themselves, remade from drawings and ancient descriptions, take the prime spot. There is also Elven and Human history there – and even a small section for Orc and Goblin history, a grim corner dedicated to past horrors.

Dale is the last city on Middle Earth that still remembers the mingling of Men, Dwarves and Elves as if it was the norm – before Dwarven kind had dwindled, waned, and finally withered to nothing. They bear the memory proudly but also sadly, a duty laid upon the city and the land by the weight of the Last Dwarf's passing, in these very lands.

Bilbo tours the museums with a mixed mind, listening to the history of Erebor and Dale and the many, many, _many_ battles and wars fought in these parts. Smaug the Last Dragon is his own story, and it's in that story Bilbo learns more of Thorin the Second, and the Company of Thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit… who took the mountain.

"It is said that the Wizard Gandalf, also known as Mithrandir, was the impetus for the quest," the tour guide speaks to the crowd of intent tourists, Humans all of them with couple of scarf-covered Orcs near the back. "In the year 2941 of the Third Age, the Quest began here, in the Blue Mountains of Ered Lithui, where Thorin the Second then reigned as King of Durin's Folk…"

It makes for a splendid, if terribly sad, story. A great dwarven king had called upon his people and only _twelve_ dwarves had answered. Why the Hobbit had answered, the tour guide doesn't say, only that the hobbit had been hired as Burglar – "To steal his way unseen and unheard to the side of the sleeping Dragon and find the famed Arkenstone without the Dragon being any wiser…"

Bilbo listens to the story, shaking his head. It must've been embellished terribly over the years, he decides. Master Burglar of Thorin Oakenshield's company, indeed. He's met only handful of Hobbits that could ever be called masters of anything – other than lazing about and eating – and even that tended to happen by a mistake. Burglary alone seems like terrible amount of effort, but _a Master Burglar_...?

No, certainly the story has grown in telling, blown widely out of proportions. The Bilbo Baggins of yore had probably joined due to some curiosity about the world and then some slip of the tongue or twist of a tale had turned a thrill seeker into a treasure hunter instead, and then to a thief and finally a burglar. That seems likely – history tends to make giants out of its important figures.

The story has a terribly sad ending – told by the tour guide as the Beginning of the Fall of Dwarven Kind. "Much about the events leading to the famed Battle of Five Armies has been lost, but we know this for sure. Both Thorin the Second and his two heirs, Kíli and Fíli of the House of Durin, fell in that battle," the tour guide says, while showing the tour group to a perfect remake of dwarven burial chamber – with three stone coffins, carven so evenly and smoothly that it's impossible to believe they've been carved by anything other than a machine. "And so the main bloodline of Durin ended, last of the Seven Lines of Dwarven Kings, broken at last."

The whole bloodline importance goes a little beyond Bilbo. Dain Ironfoot, who was hence crowned the King of Erebor, was of the House of Durin as well after all, but apparently because he wasn't a direct descendent, he wasn't as good as Thorin or his two heirs would've been? He isn't sure why it was so important, but apparently because Dain's relation to Thorin the Second had been through their great grandfather… it wasn't as good. So he was the King of Erebor and King of Durin's Folk – but he wasn't the Heir of Durin?

In any case, Dain hadn't been able to draw his people together or rally them the way Thorin might have, the true heir of the First Father of Dwarves or some such, and so began the slow decline of Dwarven kind, who remained un-united and scattered about, their numbers dwindling in numerous wars until the dawn of the Fourth Age and everything that came with it.

But as interesting as it is to examine the multitude of reasons as to why Dwarves ultimately died out, Bilbo isn't interested in that right now. His interest is in the Arkenstone. And what there is to be learned about the stone isn't much, really. A gem that glowed with its own inner light, the King's Jewel, the Birthright of Ereborean kings, mined from deep underground. It had led the dwarves of Erebor into unprecedented era of prosperity, which had led to its great riches and then to the famous story of Reclaiming or Erebor, as due to its wealth it had been lost.

Whatever importance or power the Arkenstone has seems to be mainly symbolic in any story involving it, much to Bilbo's dismay. The few drawings about it are entirely unhelpful – a glowing orb radiating with light, and that's about it. He gets the feeling no one – except perhaps some elves – knows what it truly looked like. Now even its loss isn't of interest to history – it had only seemed right for its symbolic importance to end with the Fall of Durin's Line.

Entirely unhelpful.

"Did you learn anything interesting then, Mister Baggins?" Sigrid asks, when he heads out of the museum after four hours spent touring it and trying to glean information while clearing his mind. She's waiting by a coach which Bilbo now suspects is owned by King Thranduil himself, and which only makes him little more uneasy about everything.

"Some," Bilbo answers and runs a hand over the back of his neck, looking up at the façade of the great museum. He'd hoped for some answers and he'd gotten them, but not really the ones he'd wanted. There'd been very little in general about Bilbo the Master Burglar, the Dragon Riddler – he was a sidenote in Thorin the Second's story, really. Nothing was said about what happened to him, the stories weren't even that clear on what his actual purpose had been, either. He had been the first to enter Erebor and the first to meet Smaug after well over a hundred years but aside from that… he just sort of vanished from history.

Returned to Shire, possibly, and lived out the rest of his life regretting the whole thing, Bilbo muses and turns away, to look at Sigrid.

"To the palace next?" she offers, holding the door open for him.

The Bones of the Last Dragon on Middle Earth are held in the palace of Dale. Bilbo considers it and then shakes his head – his mind is whirling badly enough from all the history. And he's hungry. "I think I'd rather like to visit a restaurant, should you know a good one," Bilbo says, and then recalling the company she keeps, adds, "A relatively cheap one, if you will."

"I think I know just the thing," Sigrid smiles and shares a word with the coachman before climbing on board herself. Outside there's a snap of reins and clatter of hooves on cobblestone before they're off. "I understand this all must be… quite a lot to take," she says.

"Yes, quite," Bilbo agrees and runs a hand over his hair. "I'm still not sure what you people require of me, or how did you ever even find out about me, or of my likeness to the Dragon Riddler. How did you?"

"A picture of you was in the dust jacket of a book you wrote – the _Westmarch?_ " Sigrid says.

"Ah, right," Bilbo says and frowns. "I didn't write the book in full – only about half of it. It was a joined effort."

"Regardless, the resemblance was marked, and as Lord Thranduil is known for his interest in the history of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, the picture was sent to him for comparison," Sigrid says, somewhat apologetic. "Honestly, I thought you were informed of this in your invitation letter. I am terribly sorry about the confusion."

"It's quite alright. The book was mentioned, at least," Bilbo says and sighs. It had only confused him further, though – the wording had been strange, and were it not for the money he would've never paid it any heed. He'd thought that the prospective employer had read the book and taken liking to his writing style perhaps – but since the project they wanted him to do for them was never actually clarified, he'd been left rather baffled. Did they want him to write a biography in the style of his portion in the _Westmarch_ , or did they want him to become a correspondent, or… what?

None of the above, apparently, Bilbo thinks and rubs his fingers over his forehead. "Do you believe it, madam?" he asks, rather helplessly. "That I am indeed the Dragon Riddler?"

Sigrid says nothing for a moment, looking out of the window as the buildings beyond pass them by. "I don't know," she says finally. "But I know the elves know things I do not, and they possess powers beyond my understanding."

"You mean magic, I assume," Bilbo says, smothering the urge to roll his eyes.

"I have seen it in action," Sigrid says plainly. "They can do… incredible things. Whether I share their belief that you and the Dragon Riddler are one and the same is ultimately irrelevant, however – I know why it matters."

"And why does it?" Bilbo asks, rather plaintive. Even if he really _was_ who they think he might be – what difference does it make now? “Why does it matter?”

Sigrid looks him over and offers him an awkward smile. "Because the Arkenstone matters," she says and folds her arms. "You're a writer. I assume you know your world history?"

"I wouldn't call myself an expert," Bilbo says warily.

"You know things are different now than they were back then," she says, meaningful, and looks outside. They're passing by a store that sells personal radios. "Very different."

"Natural progress of… progression," Bilbo says, waving a hand - though he can see she's after something specific.

"It wasn't natural back then," Sigrid says. "I studied history, extensively, when I went to university. I had my doctorate in it – my thesis was in the Fading of Magic. These last few centuries have changed the world more than thousands years before did. Something the world had back then was lost – when the Last Ships set Sail from the Grey Haven, and Rivendell and Lothlorien fell in ruin."

Bilbo swallows and clasps his hands together. "Those are fairy stories," he says, trying for a firm tone of voice but ending up sounding only uneasy.

The look Sigrid gives him is one of pity. "The Elves believe that the Arkenstone holds within it a source of… light," she says. "With it they can rekindle something we've long since lost. Why do you think Dwarves died?"

Bilbo swallows and looks down. "They died because of too many wars, too many diseases and too slow a rate of births," he says. Dwarves, he recalls, were lucky to have one child during their lives.

"Stories say that they were hewn from stone by the magic of the God Aulë," Sigrid says, as if he hadn't said anything. "And so, something within them required magic to exist. With magic fading, the dwarves faded too – some of their strength wore thin. And as they weakened, they had less children, and they got sick. Thousand years ago, two thousand… it was nearly unheard of for Dwarves to get sick at all, did you know? Most were hale and hearty through all their lives. Then, at the dawn of Fourth Age, they suddenly had plagues."

Bilbo presses his lips together, trying to keep up, trying to bend his mind to her thinking but he can't. It's all too fantastical. Ancient history is vague, changeable thing made murky by the beliefs people had in those times. Magic and Gods, good grief, he thinks. "I see," he says noncommittally, wondering if she's a Fourth Age denier. She sounds like one.

Sigrid looks at him and then clears her throat. "Apologies, I have been spending too much time with elves," she says and leans back with a sigh. "It's not just history though, or old stories – it's happening right now and I've seen it."

Bilbo looks up. "Dwarves are extinct now, how could've you seen it?" he says slowly.

"Elves aren't, yet," Sigrid says and hesitates before sighing and meeting his eyes. "You know about the weariness of elves?"

Bilbo hums. He knows that elves live for so long that just the act of _living_ and _being_ gets wearisome for them, though it is hard to imagine or understand. "What of it?"

"It's… getting worse. I have seen it. Elves of Middle Earth are dying," Sigrid admits quietly. "They go to bed and morning finds them cold and dead for no apparent reason. Thranduil thinks it's because of the Fading of Magic and it's hard to disprove it, especially considering the histories of Rivendell and Lothlorien."

Bilbo shakes his head and looks down to his hands. Certainly there are fewer and fewer elves these days, and there weren't that many left to begin with – most of them had headed off to the Gray Havens and beyond long, long time ago… but he hadn't heard of this.

"It's not just elves either," Sigrid says. "Other creatures are feeling it too. Other creatures are being found dead, seemingly for no reason. Trolls, the Great Spiders of Mirkwood… every single known Ent in Fangorn Forest is dead, did you know? There might still be some that aren't known that still live, but those that were known to be Ents have all been found dead where they stand."

Bilbo frowns, clenching and unclenching his hands. He isn't sure believes any of it. He isn't even sure what an Ent is. But at the same time he's not sure he _doesn't_ believe it.

There are still hobbits who remember the Old Forest, how it used to be… once upon a time. The talking animals, the whispering trees, the babbling brooks and the _magic_ of it all.

"Looks like we've arrived," Sigrid says and takes a breath as the carriage rattles to a halt in front of what looks like restaurant. "I recommend the meat pies – they are excellent with a pint of beer."


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo is given rooms in the House of Durin in Dale. He's not entirely certain on whose guest he really is – is it the Crown of Dale that is paying for his stay, or King Thranduil and his company of… odd history enthusiasts. The confusions about the whole job seem to only pile higher the more he wonders about it, but in any case, his needs are all met. The rooms are fine, if build to human height, and there is comfort and food in plenty.

The company of King Thranduil and Sigrid of the House of Girion have given him a few days time to settle in and consider their… theories. The visit to the museums begun what turns out to be several days of extended research into history of Dale, of Erebor and more intimately to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. Rest of the research, Bilbo finds, happens easiest in the rooms he's been given – for it seems that the Arkenstone Society seem to be the most informed people on the matter. All the books he could hope to peruse can all be found in the House of Durin in Dale.

Of course, Bilbo is still not sure he believes any of it, and he finds himself examining the books he reads with discerning eye. The books seem genuine enough, the publisher marks and quality of the manufacture seems real – but they could be skilled forgeries – or even genuine, if entirely false, productions designed and created for the sole purpose of misleading… though that takes suspicion perhaps too far.

It all is starting to make sense, is the thing.  

Bilbo has never put much stock into the concept of magic and wizardry and all that. Hobbits are a practical breed of people, and in their world hard work and patient waiting is what brings results, not prayer and spell. Crops sown well tended will yield a harvest and harvest well stored will be made into food and food will keep you alive – no magic there in the process, no god's will to make any of it so. Only toil and patience and care.

The concept of Magic Fading is not a new one to him – it goes along the Weariness of Elves and the Denial of Fourth Age and all that nonsense. Urban legends and modern myths for the feeble minded, as his grandfather used to say, to kindle in the weaker hearts a sense of wonder. Nonsense, all of it, utter nonsense.

Still, the theory is a famous one, it turns out, and an old one, nearly nine hundred years ago. It goes as follows; when the Third Age Under the Sun ended and the Fourth Age, the Age of Men, begun, something was loss in the passing of ages.

"The Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, as the ever famous ditty goes," king Thranduil wrote in one of his earlier manuscripts on the matter. "Three lynchpins on this Middle Earth, pinning down the fabric of magic that still feebly fluttered over the greying lands. When their power ended and their bearers fled these lands on their grey ships for greener pastures beyond, the pins came loose and so the fabric fluttered off in the eternal wind of time. Now time wears on all, and it wears all thin."

The story of the Rings of Power is one even Bilbo knows, though this fantastical world history hasn't really been that much of an interest to him. He even knows the whole _ditty_ as Thranduil so derisively describes it. Three rings for elves, seven for dwarves, nine for men and one for the dark lord.

"And none for hobbits, of course," Bilbo mutters and rolls his eyes, as he always does when it comes up. "Well, what would we do with rings anyway."

Still, even he knows the supposed power the elven rings had. You can't visit Rivendell without having the story all but pounded into your head by overly zealous guides and enthusiasts. It had withstood the wear of time due to the power of one of the Elven Rings, like Lothlorien had – both had fallen into ruins with their bearers' passing.

Bilbo is getting a headache over the whole thing. Magic and the fading of magic and then the idea that _items_ could hold the fading back, it's all such fantastical nonsense.

"And none of this," he says to Sigrid, who has been more or less his lone listener through his increasingly annoyed research, "none of this explains what you think I can do about it. Yes, yes, the Arkenstone," he says and waves a hand before she can do more than open her mouth. "But where you suppose I could find the thing, I would dearly like to know! From what I see here, Lord Thranduil has been looking for it for _centuries_! How can I, who knew nothing of any of this just two days ago, do any better?"

"Well," Sigrid says, lowering her tea cup to the last lone spot of clear table amidst the books and manuscripts. "That is up to Lord Thranduil to explain, I'm afraid."

"You don't know either, do you," Bilbo says flatly.

She smiles a little. "I have suspicions," she says. "Fantastical suspicions probably better left unspoken. But never mind that," she says quickly before he can demand answers. "Are you done with your research now, do you think, or should I see if I can dig out another chest full of books for you?"

Bilbo sighs and leans back on the couch, letting the manuscript he was perusing fall to his lap. He'd read about magic and the fading of magic and the Arkenstone and the Company of Thorin Oakenshield. He believes little of it and Dwarves are long dead and still it feels like it's all coming out of his _ears_ at this point. "I think if I read any more I will explode," he admits and then looks down.

"And you still don't believe?" Sigrid asks, arching her eyebrows before leaning forward to try and tidy the table a little.

"It's all so…" Bilbo makes a haphazard, frustrated gesture, "Fanciful. I'm a practical hobbit, madam, and I believe what I can see and understand and I can see and understand none of this."

Sigrid smiles a little, though it looks a little forced. "Once upon a time, they said hobbits had magic of their own."

"Oh, I'm sure we did, great wizards the whole lot no doubt," Bilbo mutters with a sigh and then leans in. "You don't need to clean up after me, Sigrid, I'm sorry – I can take care of my own mess."

"I'm here to help you, Mister Baggins, it is quite literally my job," Sigrid says, but doesn't begrudge the aid. Together they clear the table and pile the books, replacing them with the full tea set which had been, due to the lack of space, been left to a side table instead.

"What is it that you have the most problem believing?" Sigrid asks then, pouring him a cup of tea. "If you can tell me, perhaps I can help you understand."

"All of it and none of it," Bilbo says, and leans in to accept the cup. "Thank you, madam. I suppose my inability to buy into this all stems from the fact that… it was so long ago and the history is so murky on the matter. It's all poetry and prose and pretty wording – it's hard to glean what is factual and what is embellishment given to epics and myths."

Sigrid hums in agreement. "Historian wasn't a common job title back then," she agrees. "Scribes weren't common either – bards tended to be the ones holding up history in oral traditions. It does make things a little haphazard. However, we have something better than written history with us, you know. We have witnesses."

The elves, Bilbo thinks and sips his tea. "Witnesses with agendas," he points out. "Agendas which they still refuse to share with me."

"There is no point in sharing them with you, before they know you will agree with them," Sigrid says.

"And why would I ever agree to a job I don't know the purpose of? Yes, I _know_ , the Arkenstone is the point of it all – but _how_?" Bilbo mutters and scrunches up his nose. "There is something they are not telling me and it makes me most uneasy. This job entails more than just this meaningless research, I know it."

Sigrid says nothing for a moment, taking her own cup of tea and leaning back. "Most likely," she agrees after a while. "Their wariness about sharing everything with you is not personal. All of this has terrible potential of being dangerous. If Arkenstone is what they hope it is, if it has the power we hope it has, then… it's value may be immeasurable, never mind dangerous."

Bilbo breathes in and out. Source of magic, to stem the fading. Bah, he thinks and then looks up at the human woman. "Are there others after the Arkenstone?" he asks then, frowning. Do the Arkenstone Society have enemies – might he be putting himself in danger, associating with them?

"Oh, there's the usual treasure hunter and thrill seeker, looking to obtain historical riches for fame and fortune. Nothing like us," Sigrid says. "As far as we know, only those in Lord Thranduil's confidence are aware of the potential power the Arkenstone may have."

Bilbo nods slowly, frowning. "So the danger is in this information slipping out?" he says. "But if after all this time and effort Lord Thranduil still has no notion where the stone may be, then… how could anyone else?"

Sigrid gives him a pointed look.

"Me," Bilbo says. "However you think I might be able to… unearth the stone, you suspect others may use the same method?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But if there is one way, there may be another," Sigrid says. "You are first leap forward Lord Thranduil has made in well over a century, Mister Baggins."

That makes Bilbo's eyebrows rise a little. That's… not much progress then, is it? He sips his tea again, trying to solve the knot of his own thoughts. "I think I would like to talk to him, if at all possible," he says. "I have done all I can with the research. It's time for my prospective employer to finally explain what, precisely, he wants of me."

Sigrid looks him over and then nods, setting her tea cup down. "I will inform Lord Thranduil," she says and rises to her feet. "You understand that to progress further, there will be contracts."

"There are always contracts," Bilbo says and runs a hand over his forehead. "Right now I'd give my left foot just for some clarity. So as long as the terms aren't unfair, I think I can handle signing few papers."

Of course few papers turns out to be a whole stack of them, but at this point he'd rather expected it. Nothing about this trip has been easy – it would've been a downright let down if the actual act of signing his soul over to the metaphorical devil was so.

* * *

 

King Thranduil of Mirkwood doesn't think much of you. That is the impression Bilbo had gotten the first time he laid his eyes on the man, and now the feeling is only intensified. The Elven King doesn't seem to think much of anything, really, and casts all he sees a look of distain and disregard. How someone so deeply delved into the conspiracy of the Arkenstone Society can seem so utterly detached from it, Bilbo doesn't know – but the Elven King manages it admirably.

"I have spent centuries looking into this matter," the Elven King says, walking leisurely past the dwarven statues while Bilbo tries to keep up with his slow but long strides without looking like he's forced to jog. "I watched the magic of Greenwood sicken and then I watched how the curse that befell on it weakened. I watched the last flickers of Flames of Anor within those that still carried them and I watched them sputter out and die. The fading of magic is not a fairytale, Master Hobbit – it's a fact."

"I'm certain you believe it," Bilbo says as noncommittally as he can. "I haven't your long life, my lord, and I only know what I've seen."

Thranduil makes a dismissive gesture. "All mortals are thus, these days," he agrees coolly and somehow wearily. "Cynics and sceptics, the lot of you. So eager to figure out how things work and function, and not why or what set them in motion. Wonder faded from this Middle Earth along with magic – or perhaps ahead of it. Faith is sadly in short supply these days."

Bilbo swallows and says nothing to that – he's not sure how it's even relevant. Except as another thing to lay at the feet of the damned Fading of Magic. "I hardly think my believing in magic is a hindrance to whatever you actually want me to do for you," Bilbo says, trying to not sound as annoyed as he's honestly starting to feel about the whole thing. "Which I would really rather like to know more about, if your Majesty might feel inclined to actually _share_."

Thranduil casts him a glance and Bilbo clears his throath – that was terribly impolite, wasn't it? But blast it all, the whole thing is starting to _bother_ him, and he does not much like to be this bothered by anything that might be easily solved.

"Your believing in magic matters more than you know," the Elven King says and stops in front of a particularly splendid looking statue of a crowned dwarf king – which, on second glance, Bilbo identifies as Thorin the Second.

"How?" Bilbo asks warily.

Thranduil says nothing for a moment, eying the statue before looking at him. "How do you think you are meant to help us?" he asks wryly. "Did you think we were aiming to send you on a quest to investigate history, to unearth an ancient trail that I, after all these years, have failed to find? No, Master Baggins. What we want of you has all to do with magic – it's a quest for magic, _of_ magic and it will be done… by magic."

Bilbo feels like banging his head to the statue in front of them. Or perhaps attempting to trip Thranduil into it, and bang _his_ head on it. "My Lord," he says, only barely managing to stop himself from gritting his teeth and setting his feet. "I'm sure your speech is very impressive but I am a simple hobbit, so it is completely wasted on me. Could you please kindly explain what you mean?"

Thranduil looks at him down his nose and Bilbo is absolutely certain the man enjoys frustrating people, for he smiles a little. "The Kinslayer made a trinket," he says with a sniff, "That lets one divine the past. It has it's limitations, however, and one can only divine their own past with it. I have spent extended periods of time looking into those days, as has Tauriel, hoping to see what we then placed little importance to… but our vision of the past is limited to what we then experienced."

Bilbo blinks slowly, the answer coming so suddenly he hardly believes it. Then he rethinks what he heard and – no, he does not believe. "You think that I –" he starts with great deal of suspicion.

Thranduil interrupts him. "Bilbo Baggins, the _Dragon Riddler,_ saw much more," he says slowly and looks away, at the statue of Thorin the Second, scowling back at him. "If you are what we think you are, you may see through the Dragon Riddler's eyes, see what he saw – divine the fate of the Arkenstone from his experiences."

Bilbo stares at the Elven King for a moment and then runs a hand over his face with a sigh, turning to look at the statue. Why is that that all the dwarves look so damned grim in their stone effigies? "So," he says flatly. "What you ultimately want is for me to do a _séance_ on myself. On my… _past self_?"

"Reincarnation is hardly unheard of," Thranduil says, casting him a look. "It's not difficult process, you do not need to know magic to do it. But it takes certain level of… mental dexterity. Faith and belief and confidence, I'm afraid, is something of a requirement."

Bilbo frowns, looking up at the Elven King. "This is utterly ludicrous," he says.

"Oh, entirely," Thranduil agrees. "It might also be the only way to save my kind, and all my kin in magic, on Middle Earth. A hefty responsibility to lay on such small shoulders, I know," he adds sarcastically and looks him over. "But I have found gold to give people great might and trust me, Bilbo Baggins, when I say we can pay you _royally_ for this."

Thinking of the house they're staying in, the travel and living expenses covered and Sigrid seemingly at his beck and call… Bilbo doesn't doubt it for a moment. These people could probably make him wealthy beyond his expectations. Not that he truly had much in way of expectations.

"What say you, then, Bilbo Baggins?" Thranduil demands. "Will you agree to make the attempt?"

Running a hand over his mouth, Bilbo looks away and thinks on it. It's so ridiculous, all of it, fantastical nonsense. Divining the past. Hah. Can it really be done? The Elven King in front of him certainly seems to believe so, though apparently elves have no trouble believing all sorts of things.

A sensible hobbit would flick his toes to the whole matter and move to more realistic pursuits.

"How does it work?" Bilbo asks.

Thranduil smiles and motions with his hand, his wide, graceful sleeve shifting against his robes with a sound like rustling of leaves. "Let me show you," he says and leads Bilbo away from the statue of Thorin Oakenshield who scowls after them grimly as only stone can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot change number 1

**Author's Note:**

> Tags, relationships and plot may all potentially be subject to change


End file.
